It's a Snowy Christmas
by Goldy
Summary: Buffy and Angel meet in the dreaming to spend that special December holiday together. Fluffiness ensues.


Title: It's a Snowy Christmas

Author: Goldy

Email: thegoldoneb_a@hotmail.com

Pairing: B/A

Timeline: I don't know. Make it up. 

Synopsis: Not only can the gold one write humor and angst but she's also great at fluff, too! So. Get your toothbrush, get some floss cause the next few pages I'd expect get kind of sugary. Willow isn't the only one who's having funky dreams about dead lovers…

A/N: I know, I know, I said I was retiring from writing B/A fanfiction. But you couldn't really expect me to JUST write a W/T story did you? B/A fluff is kind of my element. 

Rating: PG-13

The snow softly twirled in the air and fell gently to the ground. It was a mystical painting, swirling together at once, dipping and blending in the winter wind. A flake fell on her nose and she laughed, grabbing on to his hand and pulling him down into the snow with her. It only made sense, she figured, that they would both choose this kind of a setting. 

"I've always wanted to make a snow angel," she admitted, cheer ringing in her voice.

"Is that some kind of a play on words?" he teased gently, allowing her to haul him down to the ground.

Buffy spread out, swishing her arms back and forth. She gazed up at the sky, staring at the snowflakes that seemed to fall on top of her. "It only seems to snow on Christmas when you're around."

Angel laughed good-naturedly, allowing their hands to grasp as they made body shaped holes in the ground. "I think this is the first Christmas that I haven't wanted to kill myself."

Buffy snickered, rolling over on to her elbow. She gazed down into his handsome face. They were so lucky, she knew, to have a bond so deep that they could find each other on this holiday. "You should try anti-depressants, they do wonders for those mood swings."

Angel looked like he was about to pout, but instead grabbed her around the waist. Buffy shrieked, falling down on his chest. "I don't need anti-depressants…"

She grinned, "Why not?" Instead of answering, he cupped her face in his hands, bringing her mouth down for a sweet, chaste, kiss. She pulled away, staring at him happily. "Mmmm… that would be why…"

He shared her beam and they looked to the entire world like a happy couple playing in the snow, too in love to keep their hands at bay. "You're beautiful when your cheeks are flushed."

Buffy bowed her head, kissing his chin lightly. "Hey… not fair being all sappy and romantic."

His hands tightened around her waist. "I like giving you compliments."

"Don't I know it." She sighed, resting her head against her chest. "There's nothing better…"

"Then lying here in your arms—" he finished.

Buffy nodded, lifting her head to look into his eyes. They were so deep, so full of love for her. She felt her heart twinge painfully. "I wish that it didn't only happen in our dreams."

He lay a finger on her lips. "It doesn't matter," he soothed, "don't dwell on it. Just be here now. With me."

She nodded, rubbing his nose gently with her own. "Forever." Removing her glove, she touched his face with her bare hands, caressing it gently. She remembered every curve, every slope, it was printed in her memory for the rest of time.

He closed his eyes. Her hands were so soft, so warm. It was so hard not to love her this much, not want to feel her so deeply inside. He turned his head, pressing his lips against her palm. She giggled softly, her breath coming out as soft, warm puffs on his face. 

Nothing could have made him happier.

Except… 

"Buffy?"

"Mmmm?"

"I'm a little wet."

***

Inside the cabin. A fire was roaring in the heart. Their wet clothes were laid out on the wood floor, drying in the heat. Sounds of laughter could be heard from the kitchen.

Buffy was sitting on the counter, watching Angel cook them dinner with a gleam in her eyes. "I never knew that watching a man cook could be so sexy."

His sleeves were rolled up, flour was dried to the side of his chin, and his hair was sticking up in the places were it hadn't dried properly. "I'm making great art," he exclaimed indignantly.

"I like watching you make art," she said sensually.

He stopped what he was doing and glared at her. "If you keep talking like that, I might have to stop what I'm doing and show you what else I'm really good at. Then we'll never eat."

She pouted. "Who says?"

Angel set the timer on the oven, put the turkey in. He came over and gave her pouting lip a quick kiss before rushing off to peel the potatoes. "It's not like you offered to help."

Buffy winced. "Believe me when I say, so not a good idea. Besides, I like it when you cook for me."

Angel gave a quick glance at her, watched her take her hair clip out and comb her hair with her fingers. He swore, cutting his finger on the peeler. "Stop doing that."  
  


"Doing what?"  
  


"Distracting me."

"But Angelllllll," she whined, "it's really fun."

He stopped peeling. Coming over to where she was sitting, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush up against his body. She gulped. "Fun…"

"Uhhhh huhhh," she whispered, leaning into him. But, damn, he smelled good, and his body was so lean, but strong and firm. His hands moved in distracting patterns over her back, his mouth was coming closer, and sweet jesus, what the hell had she been thinking about? "You have potato hands!" she squeaked.

"I'll buy you a new shirt," he told her, closing the distance between them. 

The kiss was hot and furious. Two lovers with bent up passion between them. His hands were everywhere it seemed, feeling, reaching, touching, remembering. Down her back, through her hair, over the sensitive part on her neck that made her squeal. She leaned further into him, deepening the kiss, moaning softly. Their tongues melted together, passionate and burning.

Buffy's mouth sucked against his greedily and he couldn't think of a place he'd rather be in that moment. Her arms were like home, her mouth like the greatest gift of god. She tasted like vanilla, he thought, her hair was soft like silk in a summer breeze. They melted together, like two pieces of a puzzle that fit absolutely right.

A timer dinged.

Angel ripped away and rushed to the hot cocoa that had boiled over on the stove. "Stupid stove," he cried.

Buffy sucked in a large gulp of air, fanning her face frantically. "Okay," she gasped, "feeling a little un-satisfied over here."

Angel turned around to glare at her. "Well if you haven't looked so very appealing, then we would have been able to do it properly and the hot chocolate wouldn't be turning to rock right now and everything is ruined!"

"Love, you're almost three hundred years old, I'd have thought you could come up with a more eloquent speech of anger."

He frowned, "As someone who's lived a long time, I know how dangerous it can be to interrupt someone who is trying to make a Christmas dinner."

Buffy snorted. "You're telling me! I remember this time when my mother burned the turkey and the fire alarm went off and the neighbours called the police and…" she chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Actually, that's the end of the story. There wasn't really a point to that."

"You're cute when you tell stories without a point."

Buffy smirked. "You're biased."

"True."

"Umm, Angel?

"What?"

"You still haven't turned off the stove."

Angel glanced at the cocoa that was bubbling over. He let out a growl and hit his fist against the stove. It turned off.

"That's one way to do it," the slayer observed.

Angel glowered at her. "Stop talking to me."

She hopped down from the counter, slid over to where he was again trying to peel the potatoes. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she lay her cheek against the soft material of his shirt. "I'm sorry about messing things up."

Angel closed his eyes, willed himself to concentrate on peeling the potatoes. "I forgive you."

"Have I ever told you about the wonders of chocolate and peanut butter?"

Angel stopped peeling. "Maybe…"

Her voice dropped a level, became huskier. "We could forget about the whole traditional Christmas dinner thing. Make up our own."

Turkey? What was he doing even thinking about making turkey when the woman of his dreams was practically begging him to take her…. "What do you have in mind?"  
  


"I don't know…" she purred, releasing him. Angel turned sharply around to find her sauntering away.

He didn't even have to think about it. He sprang after her, grabbing her around the waist, mouth coming down to maul her own.

The kitchen table would later be broken.

Both would soon be in need of new clothes.

But neither of them cared. They loved each other, they had this one night, this one perfect night to show that love, and they weren't going to let it pass them by. Their lives were too short, too uncertain to not grab hold of each other and never let go.

Somehow they made it to the bed. They lay there some hours later, Buffy spooned against his chest, Angel's arms wrapped tightly around her. 

"I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his dead heart. "That won't ever change."

He rested his chin against her hair, breathed in her warm, comforting scent. "I love you. More than anything, more than I will ever love everything."

"You're going to be gone when I wake up." It was a statement, not a question, they both knew it to be true.

He kissed the crown of her hair, closed his eyes. "We were lucky to get this."

"The powers were on our side for once," she agreed trying to sound light, but not able to keep the bitterness from her voice.

"It'll make it harder," Angel admitted, "but I wouldn't change this moment we got. Not for the world. Not for anything."

She smiled, feeling the soft lull of sleep call out to her. "Angel?"

"Hmmm?"

"This was the best Christmas ever."

The end


End file.
